The Third Suspicion

THE THIRD SUSPICION

An espionage thriller

104,000 words

<<< Wednesday, 28th February 2024 (T -24 days) >>>

Tina Wilde stood with her hands behind her back – formality felt right when putting a life in danger. She was alone, in the sub-basement of the Secret Intelligence Service headquarters in London. The op pod had overly bright lights, a two-person desk, a video camera with a red light, and a monitor that stretched across one wall. It gave her a view of a room with a long table, a portrait of King Charles III and a map of Lebanon. The SIS’s station officer in Beirut sat straight-backed, with his hands hidden and his face angled away from the camera. At the far end, an ex special services soldier stood to attention.

Ursula Franklin had legs so long she made the table look stunted, her shoulder and arm muscles filled her black T-shirt, and the cheek bones on her dark face were accentuated. ‘Guns. What do I get?’ Her voice had the drawl of the American deep south, but her phraseology was English. The drawl came from her father, not her mother.

Wilde used her formal tone. ‘No guns. We’re intelligence, not military. Guns create more problems than they solve.’

‘You’ve not been in the field yet, have yer?’

Wilde didn’t reply. She glanced to the corner of the screen to check her face was poker neutral. She had short hair and used business clothes that made her look like she’d reached her thirties; her broad eyebrows and long, narrow nose were distinctive; and her stature was short. She looked back at the camera. ‘Our subject is a colonel in Russian SVR intelligence. He’s meeting directors from a crime cartel. ZAA is their name. They’re Lebanese-Syrian. The meet is so secret he’s not bringing his security team. Your brief is to provide eyes and ears.’

‘That intel reliable?’

Wilde didn’t answer.

#

Two days later, Wilde stood in the SIS’s Op Room Beta and stared at the conference camera between the screens. ‘Why’s Ursula Franklin still on target? She was meant to conceal her camera and return after the Antipov-ZAA encounter.’ The image on the centre-left monitor showed the same room in Beirut as three days ago, and the same officer-in-command.

Op Room Beta was down the corridor from the op pods, and it was much larger. Wilde sat alone at its command table, with nothing except her high-side laptop. She’d been joined by a research team. They had stations facing the far end of the room and they’d been joined by a liaison for links to other agencies, but the line of computers on the long wall were unmanned, and the officer-in-command had dialled in.

The OIC had a narrow face, with chiselled features and short, curly hair. ‘Ursula stays to protect the satellite transmitter,’ he said. ‘She can use the camera to check for dangers.’

Wilde had hoped for remote control of the camera.

The centre right monitor had a live video feed from a warehouse, twenty-five miles to the east of Beirut. Ursula had used an abandoned wasps nest to disguise her camera. The inside of the warehouse was pitch black, except near the open doors. In the partial moonlight, the yard outside seemed bright. Beyond it a line of olive trees stretched up to the hills along the Syrian border. Somewhere among the trees, a camouflage net covered her scrambler bike. The bike was Ursula’s buddy. She spent her evenings maintaining it. Lonely. Wilde couldn’t figure what drove Ursula, or what she felt.

Ursula lay at the top of a scaffolding tower on the outside of the warehouse. She had a satellite transmitter, a remote control for the camera, a coiled rope for her escape, and knives for emergencies. The grey tarpaulin failed to protect her from the cold, so she flexed her muscles to keep them ready for action. She’d found that helped with her arms, but not her legs and feet. The damned feet were always the first to go. She’d need them if the intelligence was as crap as usual. Ursula’s thoughts were dominated by anger. And especially, anger at the asshole who said no guns.

She saw a glimmer of headlights in the blackness that stretched to the nearby town, then she heard it: a car with a petrol engine. It moved around to the other side of the warehouse, out of Ursula’s sight. She watched the remote monitor. A two-door Mercedes C300 appeared on the small screen, and stopped. A passenger climbed out and the car pulled away. She zoomed in on the man. He was skinny, wearing black jeans and a jacket. With his back to the moonlight she couldn’t see his face, but she could see the flashlight and his assault rifle.

In London, Wilde gestured with an open palm to the first of the researchers.

‘Weapon is an AK-74M,’ he said, ‘and it’s fitted with an UltiMAK rail and a SLx 3x32 scope – that’s American kit, not Russian.’

The officer-in-command spoke for the first time for long minutes. ‘Is Mr AK a third party?’

Wilde didn’t answer.

On the screen AK inspected the empty shell of the warehouse, with its high ceiling. He turned to the wasps nest in one corner. It was too early in the year for wasps. He studied it for three seconds, then headed outside.

Wilde waited for him to reappear. The picture was static and silent, like a still image.

The silence was broken by a double-click from Ursula. Danger.

A single click would indicate the danger had gone. Three clicks meant Ursula was breaking cover. And gunshots meant something else. Wilde could hear her own breath. The no-guns order to Ursula was a disaster. Wilde wished she’d argued with Legal.

AK didn’t reappear.

After twenty minutes the Mercedes returned and reversed into the warehouse. Its lights unveiled the beams on the roof. One click from Ursula. Moments later, AK was back. He had a beanie hat, an oversized face-mask and lightly-tinted glasses that hadn’t been there before. His jacket was unbuttoned, revealing his only discerning feature: a woven belt with a large red rose on its buckle.

The driver stepped out, moved forwards into the headlights, and stopped. It was the Russian colonel. Wilde let her breath out, relieved that it wasn’t a gate crash by Americans.

Colonel Ruslan Antipov stood with his legs and knees apart, as though on a horse. He had pock-marked skin, a bulbous nose, a neck like a tree-trunk, and a polished leather holster on his hip. AK went to the car and brought a folding chair, and it bent as the colonel sat on it.

The Russians waited. Not a word or gesture between them. In London, Wilde wanted to stand up and pace, but everyone was watching her. She considered going to the refreshment table, but all her stomach could take was water. Ursula’s words haunted her: ‘you’ve not been in the field yet.’

Thirty minutes later a Nissan SUV arrived. It turned into the warehouse entrance and its headlights broke the shadows. The driver and front passenger didn’t register on the facial recognition scans. They posed like cowboys and wore black combat jackets and trousers, and they carried the same Makarov PM pistols used by the Syrian Army.

The rear doors opened and two more men stepped out. They wore fitted suits with open-neck white shirts and no obvious signs of weapons. Wilde recognised the men immediately. The head of operations for the Zimalat Altujjar Almuslimin managed their intelligence unit, among other things. And ZAA’s head of Human Resources had a special remit. Wilde knew of five fatalities they’d arranged for discipline, and eight to ease trade deals.

Hyenas. They’d rip Ursula apart if they caught her.

Colonel Antipov kept on his folding chair, and everyone else stood. ‘This is Arsenal,’ Antipov introduced AK. They talked in Arabic. Antipov talked slowly, the ZAA directors talked fast and Arsenal said nothing.

ZAA’s Director of Operations spoke. ‘You asked to consult us,’ he said. Unlike his colleague’s scraggly beard, he kept his own trimmed and short.

‘We are going to target British MI6 and everyone in it.’ Antipov’s words sounded scripted. Beside him, Arsenal kept as still as stone. And in London, the hair stood up on the back of Wilde’s neck.

‘Sorry.’ The ZAA director’s voice rose in pitch. ‘Why are you telling us this secret?’

‘Because your support is needed.’

‘But MI6 knows everything.’ ZAA’s Director of Operations tilted his head downwards.

Antipov raised his arms and folded them in a steady movement. ‘On the contrary. It pretends it knows everything.’ Beside him, Arsenal pivoted and used his flashlight to inspect the warehouse again.

‘What do you want?’ The director’s voice was hesitant.

‘The use of your agent in Britain. Arsenal will be your contact.’ Arsenal nodded.

‘We’re sorry, there’s been a misunderstanding. We don’t have an agent in Britain. We only have contractors, and their loyalty is questionable…’ He rubbed his fingers as though counting money.

‘Spying on your enemies is natural, yes; but it’s more important to spy on your friends .’ He shifted his shoulders. ‘One of your affiliates has an agent in deep cover.’

Arsenal directed the torch on his rifle to the wasps nest. The image on Wilde’s screen flared white. The camera adjusted, just as the ZAA director started to respond.

Suddenly Wilde’s screen went black and the director’s voice was cut mid-word. Silence for a heartbeat, then three electronic clicks. Signal lost, attempting to reconnect – the words appeared on the screen.

Ursula? Wilde wanted eyes on the ground.

One of the giant monitors in front of her flickered. It was the officer-in-command in Beirut. His camera zoomed in, and it brought out the lines on his face, a red spot on his left eye and the detail of his teeth. ‘Well, Constantina, have you got what you wanted?’

The researchers froze. They’d all heard him. ‘Only my family call me Constantina. The name is Tina Wilde,’ she said. ‘And I’ll be satisfied when I know Ursula is safe.’ Her bum muscles clenched.

‘Ursula had words about you. Best to avoid coming into contact with her,’ he said, and signed off.

Officers! Wilde felt better without him. She moved to sit on the command table, using the casual pose to distract the researchers from looking at the empty seats. And perhaps it would also calm her. ‘Any clues on the name Arsenal?’ she asked the lead researcher. Kai Christofferson had a lithe body, with a face and hands that were unusually delicate.

‘It must be a cover name,’ he said in his soft, Danish accent.

‘It could be his new front man for dealing with proxies.’ Wilde contemplated what Antipov had done with his previous front man. ‘Your thoughts on what we heard?’

‘Colonel Antipov issued a blatant threat. Pass responsibility upwards. Do it immediately.’

Wilde nodded. A movement on one of the researcher’s monitors caught her attention. She wanted news about Ursula. None. ‘What’s Antipov up to?’ she asked Kai. She talked too fast. Adrenaline.

Kai flexed his fingers. ‘They want to kill us and bring the Service to its knees,’ he said.

‘Perhaps he was taking the piss, like when he teased ZAA about not spying on their friends.’ Wilde paced her words carefully. ‘Think through Antipov’s words. His intent is too vague, too ambitious. Attacking us could be seen as an act of war, and it would require authorisation from Putin; and why would Russian intelligence use proxies for something so sensitive?’

A short burst transmission flashed onto the screen. Ursula – she was safe. Wilde’s shoulder muscles relaxed, but only momentarily.

‘When you escalate,’ Kai said, ‘you will be brought in front of the high and the mighty. What will you tell them?’ His gaze darted to her nose and lips. He’d once commented that she’d stolen her nose from an Egyptian statue. It had been accompanied by a hand on her shoulder. Wilde pretended not to notice, and Kai had never touched her again.

‘I’ll say the same as when we first heard about the meeting,’ she said. ‘An SVR colonel is too senior to meet with racketeers. It should have been subbed to someone expendable.’

‘Maybe he was in a hurry.’

‘Or maybe he intends to surprise us.’ Wilde tilted her head to one side. ‘You’re missing my point. Colonel Antipov doesn’t play cricket. He plays chess, and he cheats.’

#

Wilde jumped from her bed long before the alarm rang. It was three days after the Antipov-ZAA encounter, and her thoughts were on the morning’s meeting of the high and the mighty. She’d heard a rumour that the counter-terrorism people had labelled ZAA as a potential threat. The formality meant they wanted control.

Wilde chose her best suit and dressed on her dance mat in the area between her bed and the kitchen unit. ‘Big client coming today,’ she said to her partner.

‘Use make-up,’ he replied.

But she never used makeup at work. Paulo didn’t get that, just as he didn’t understand why her job in a finance company involved erratic hours and poor pay.

She arrived early in Whitehall to meet people and talk. Her feet felt light as she arrived at the Foreign Office. Her mobile pinged. Say nothing, her head of department messaged. Winton! Bastard.

Her destination was a conference room, with a line of oak tables, brass chandeliers and a view of Downing Street. She checked the place cards for Winton Estall and sat behind his empty chair on a stool against the wall, and she waited. She studied the members of the Collective Intelligence Group as they arrived. Familiar faces, though mostly from pictures. The CIG included senior people from across the Security Agencies and Diplomatic Service, with contacts from the Metropolitan Police and the Defence Intelligence Staff. It monitored the Middle East and North Africa for threats from organisations outside state control, and it reported directly to the Joint Intelligence Committee that spanned the UK’s intelligence services. Wilde looked at Winton’s chair and wondered if one day she’d be trusted like him.

Winton arrived last. He reminded Wilde of a barn owl, with a rounded, pale face, narrow nose and small dark eyes. His considered movements made him look like he was in his late fifties, but she’d checked and found he was ten years younger.

Winton headed straight for his chair.

‘Good morning,’ she said. She kept her tone neutral.

He stared at her as if she’d disobeyed a direct order. And during the meeting he didn’t turn to her once – not even when the CIG’s discussion shifted to the Antipov-ZAA encounter. At the end, he stood, ignored the social talk with his peers, and headed for the door. She caught his signal to her: a single finger curled inwards, like the one her father used for the dog.

A one-on-one with Winton Estall? Wilde’s stomach contracted. She’d only been alone with him once. Ten seconds he’d given her, and four words: ‘You’re going to Libya.’ No buts, no reassurances, no pat on the back. Three months of bloody hell and another partner lost from her life.

She followed Winton down a stone-walled corridor. The floor was uneven from a hundred and fifty years of hard-soled shoes. Wilde tried to keep up but he was clearly slowing his pace for her. Damn these short legs.

They climbed wide stairs and headed into a narrow room with small windows. It had a musty smell, and portraits of men of power. Winton closed the door and turned to her. ‘What about Antipov? Be brief.’

Wilde blinked. She wondered how he knew. Her colleagues? Or perhaps he’d accessed her private notes. ‘Antipov uses distraction to hide his intent,’ she said. ‘And there’s his involvement with their advanced technologies division, but that’s not verified.’

‘Take it as fact,’ Winton said. He stared at her, unblinking. ‘The CIG labelled ZAA as potential terrorists. What’s your take?’

Wilde felt blood rush to her face. Junior analysts do not criticise the consensus of an entire CIG. She breathed deeply. ‘ZAA call themselves a Federation of Muslim Businessmen, but they’re primarily racketeers; and to Antipov, they’re just proxies to be exploited. It’s his talk of our weaknesses that worries me.’

‘So you dissent from the CIG’s assessment?’

‘The CIG’s brief doesn’t cover psychological operations, but Antipov does.’

Winton still stared at her. ‘There’s a lead you might want to explore,’ he said. ‘René DuPoitier runs a small network of refugee smugglers, he has two salacious websites on the dark web, and he participates in blackmail. He’s French-Moroccan and active in Lebanon and Syria. It must have brought him into contact with ZAA.’

A minor refugee smuggler? Wilde hid her thoughts.

Winton paused. ‘Adopt full fusion across our intelligence services.’

Damn! A straightjacket. Wilde figured it would take more than paperwork to resolve this. She wondered whose life would be at risk next time.

‘If our counter terrorism units are misdirected, pursuit falls to you.’ The UK’s counter terrorism strategy covered Prevent, Pursue, Protect and Prepare.

Wilde nodded sharply. To be trusted with something so important – that was a first.

He turned his back on her and headed to the door. ‘For this matter, you report to me,’ he said without turning. ‘Don’t involve your team lead, and keep records to a minimum.’

The door swung closed behind him.

Wilde found her own way back along echoing corridors that she’d never walked alone. She looked to the doors, expecting to be challenged at any moment. And all the while, a single thought dominated her mind: Winton wanted full fusion, and a moment later he’d told her to hide the paper trail.